Four stars. Rated R, for dramatic intensity, alcohol abuse, nudity, sexual candor and relentless profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.27.18
The quickest entry to John Callahan’s caustic, macabre and self-deprecating sense of humor is to understand that this film takes its title from his 1989 autobiography, written 17 years after the traffic accident that left him a C5-6 quadriplegic.
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| As John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix) begins to morph into an actual human being, he's helped along the way by the kindness and patience of Annu (Rooney Mara). |
His scratchy, hilariously irreverent cartoons appeared everywhere for a time, from Omni and Harper’s to National Lampoon and Penthouse. Most notably, his work was featured for 27 years in the Portland, Ore., newspaper Willamette Week, where both he and the staff delighted in the occasional protests and boycotts by enraged readers.
That reaction remains true to this day. You can’t help laughing at most of Callahan’s work, but then — just as quickly — you wonder whether you should.
All this said, he isn’t necessarily an ideal subject for a biographical drama … particularly one that wishes to be factually and emotionally accurate. He was as aggressively confrontational as his cartoons; for quite a number of years before and after the accident, he also was an exceptionally nasty alcoholic. It’s not easy to spend two hours with such an unpleasant person, and Joaquin Phoenix doesn’t hold back; his depiction of Callahan is quite brutal at times.
But we are a species which, by nature, believes in the miracle of epiphanies … and few individuals have undergone a greater change. That isthe stuff of captivating film dramas.
Director/scripter Gus Van Sant has spent the bulk of his career crafting compelling sagas about equally challenging — and often unlikable — individuals, from Drugstore Cowboy and My Own Private Idaho up through To Die For, Elephant and Paranoid Park. His films intrigue not only for their unusual characters, but also for the often non-linear manner in which he lets a saga unfold.
That’s particularly true of Don’t Worry, which structures its (more or less) chronological narrative via Callahan’s candid recollections, as depicted during numerous Alcoholics Anonymous meetings; a chance encounter with young neighborhood skateboarders; and while addressing a crowd at a popular public presentation, after he had become quite famous. These sequences are further interspersed with animated versions of Callahan’s signature cartoons.
The running thread — the moral — is consistent throughout: Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Shrug it off, whatever it is, and take control.
A valuable lesson: one that took Callahan years to recognize, understand and embrace.
Van Sant drops us immediately into Callahan at his caustic, short-tempered worst: belligerent, heedless of anybody else’s feelings, and an uncertain new arrival at a small AA group run by Donnie (Jonah Hill). Like everybody else who wallows in self-pity, Callahan believes his misery to be unique; after all, he’s stuck in a wheelchair.
He therefore rages when the other group members roll their eyes and smile sympathetically at his naïveté: What … you think you’re special? Dream on.
The salient details emerge gradually, painfully, like pulling teeth; Van Sant teases us, cutting backward and forward in time, bouncing between various key events in Callahan’s life. Everything initially revolves around his description of “The last day I walked.” (I couldn’t help remembering the notion of “the last good day,” from John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars.)
Callahan is 21, living in Southern California; it’s 1972. Phoenix, looking impressively youthful, makes him a red-haired charmer with the breezy, beachified radiance of a guy who picks up girls as easily as he picks up a bottle of whiskey. He’s a barely functional, full-time drunk, with the exaggeratedly careful gait of somebody who fears the ground beneath his feet might roll at any moment.
He encounters the similarly soused Dexter (Jack Black) at a party; they depart for some late-night bar-hopping. Neither thinks twice about driving. (1972, remember? The good ol’ days…)
Van Sant doesn’t dwell on the inevitable accident; it takes place off-camera. At the key moment, we cut back to Callahan, sharing this story with the AA group. The recitation leaves him drained; his listeners are stoic. They’ve heard it all before; some of them have saidit all before.
These group sessions are painfully, uncomfortably raw; Van Sant turns us into unwilling eavesdroppers. Top marks to the authenticity of the characters developed by these five actors: indie rock singer Beth Ditto, as the straight-talking, unflappably jovial Reba; Mark Webber, as the closed-off Mike; Ronnie Adrian, whose Martingale fancies himself a street poet; Kim Gordon, as the mostly silent, mildly intimidating Corky; and Udo Kier, as the easily exasperated Hans.
Damaged souls, all. Donnie calls them his “piglets,” not unkindly.
Hill almost certainly will pick up another Academy Award nomination for this fascinating performance. The long-haired Donnie’s soft-spoken demeanor invites an early comparison to Jesus, but of course he’s much too coarse and profane; he’s also quick to challenge somebody’s BS. And although his counsel has a trace of smugness and self-righteous superiority, Donnie has an unerring talent for saying just the right thing, at just the right moment.
In other words, he’s the perfect sponsor.
And yet … and yet … there’s also pain in Hill’s gaze, and some of his pauses become uneasy, as if matters have strayed too close to Donnie’s own demons. It’s a helluva role, and Hill does great things with it.
Van Sant also is unsparing with his depiction of the physical challenges Callahan faces. The film doesn’t flinch from the awkward and unpleasant details: the baths, the full-time catheter and urine bag, the damage resulting from wheelchair miscalculations. And, mostly, Callahan’s utter helplessness, in the face of so many common acts that the rest of us take for granted. Phoenix’s shattered expressions, at such moments, are heartbreaking.
Then, too, there’s the matter of intimacy. Van Sant’s gentle, earnest — but still provocatively uninhibited — touch hearkens back to 2012’s The Sessions: not quite as explicit, but just as warmly captivating (and even amusing).
Part of the story’s tender eroticism arrives with Rooney Mara’s flirty, mildly voluptuous portrayal of the very Swedish Annu, a hospital therapist-turned-flight attendant: a composite character based on several of the women in Callahan’s life. Mara makes her so kind, generous and sensitive that we initially wonder if Annu is even real: not an unexpected reaction, given that Callahan occasionally hallucinates seeing a trio of young gymnasts, when he glances out a window toward a nearby park.
Carrie Brownstein is note-perfect as Suzanne, the long-suffering caseworker who oversees Callahan’s disability benefits: a thankless task, particularly during the phase when he’s still a raging drunk. She’s by no means a bureaucratic monster: merely an overworked individual who does care, but who nonetheless must maintain boundaries.
Unfortunately, Tony Greenland isn’t able to do much with his handling of Tim, Callahan’s equally long-suffering (and oft-abused) caretaker. It’s an important role, and a character whom we’d like to know and understand far better, but he’s too frequently shunted aside, or used merely as the target of Callahan’s wrath (or Donnie’s).
Frequent Van Sant collaborator Danny Elfman delivers a poignant score, which alternates between solo piano or guitar — for the rawest, most intensely intimate moments — and string quartet selections, along with vocals by singer Petra Haden.
Van Sant’s film frequently is tough sledding, particularly during the first act, when we’ve little context for Phoenix’s relentlessly off-putting depiction of Callahan. Being confronted with this level of unrepentant alcoholism is brutal; we’re a long way from the then-novel discomfort of 1962’s Days of Wine and Roses, or even 1995’s Leaving Las Vegas.
But our patience is rewarded. Van Sant builds this film — and Callahan himself — to an amazingly powerful and heartwarming conclusion. I defy anybody to remain stoic during the final scene.
“Comedy is the main weapon we have against ‘The Horror,’ ” Callahan once wrote. “With it, we can strike a blow at death itself.”
He did that, with his cartoons.
Van Sant does the same, with this film.
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